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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29023101">Under Control</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRainMustFall/pseuds/SomeRainMustFall'>SomeRainMustFall</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Drowning, Episode: s02e03 Alma Mater, Gen, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Malcolm Bright Whump, Self-Hatred</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 14:13:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,107</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29023101</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRainMustFall/pseuds/SomeRainMustFall</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He holds tight to the little book, swipes his arm to get to the surface—</p><p>And doesn't move.</p><p>He tugs at his foot, and <i>it</i> doesn't move either. </p><p>The word forms again on his lips, silent this time.</p><p> <i>Fuck.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>110</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Under Control</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>*side eyes the show again* but also hello?? I'm so inspired?? It feels so good?? Anyway here's Malcolm drowning <i>like he's meant to</i> 😌</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The water is cold, hits him like a full-body blow as he drops down into it. It stuns him out of his daze, back into his head, even though it still takes a moment to get moving.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't have any time to waste. He knows exactly what he needs, where it is, and how to get it.</p><p> </p><p>He swims forward, not bothering to grab another breath before he does. He picks out the headmaster's desk easily, even through the blue cloud of water, because it's not something he's ever forgotten. Even as a shadow, even looking as surreal as it does in nightmares and pushed-down memories, he picks the shape of it out perfectly, grabs onto it and pulls himself down to it.</p><p> </p><p>His suit is still trailing bubbles upwards, but it's already heavy, waterlogged, and makes it easier to keep himself under. His lungs are already starting to burn, because he didn't take enough air in before falling, but that's his fault, his mistake. He ignores it. His fingers slip about the drawer, tugging to no avail, and he grits his teeth. </p><p> </p><p>He'd known it was locked. It always was, even back then. He needs the key, or something to pick the lock. He can't focus on finding either when suddenly his chest is bucking and his body is instinctively forcing him upwards, his legs kicking to propel himself back into air.</p><p> </p><p>He tosses his head back, gasping, then coughs from the force of it. His throat is hoarse already, and his next swallow makes him wince.</p><p> </p><p>He hears that goddamn whistle again, echoing about the walls, and feels a surge of fear as he squeezes his eyes shut.</p><p> </p><p>Feeling about his pocket, he takes a deep breath and submerges himself again, grabbing onto the underside of the desk and then hooking his foot beneath the three side drawers to stay there. His fingers are stiff from the cold, now, but he gets the tools out of his kit and sets to work on the tiny keyhole. </p><p> </p><p>Bubbles obscure his vision for a moment, escaping from his mouth and lungs as his chest heaves, but then he closes it tightly, forces his lips tightly together, and it stops. Control is what he needs, just control. He's good at that. The rising panic, however, the increasing need for air, makes him work faster but <em>not</em> better, and there's not much he can do to control <em>that</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He grunts, trying hard to steady himself. It doesn't hurt worse than anything else. Pain is <em> welcome. </em> Pain is what he <em> deserves, </em>now more than ever. </p><p> </p><p>He slides his foot a little further under, even as his other traitorously pushes at the bottom of the pool. </p><p> </p><p><em> No. </em>The book. He has to—</p><p> </p><p>As it always does, his body betrays him. He swallows a mouthful of water, gagging as he chokes it down, and shudders hard enough to drop one of the tools. His curse is gargled, and it uses the last of the air up, forces him to rise up to take in more.</p><p> </p><p>The headrush he gets when oxygen hits his starving lungs again feels <em> good. </em>It feels like therapy, better than any he could pay for. It's different than harming himself in ways that leave more permanent reminders. </p><p> </p><p>Not unlike it, though. Not unlike it at all. As much as he pushed, he still didn't go as far as he tends to when he holds himself under in the bathtub, when his return to breathing and <em> living </em> is far more painful than anything else.</p><p> </p><p>No, <em> this </em> sends endorphins through his blood, heats his face in a flush of it to his cheeks, and for a few seconds he's almost relaxed, almost enough to forget why he's here.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>Fuck!" </em> he shouts to the empty room when he remembers, just because no one will hear. </p><p> </p><p>Goddamn selfish. <em> Selfish. </em> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Focus. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He gulps in another breath to hold as he dives back down, blinking to clear his vision as much as he can. He's careful as he moves, slow as to not knock anything around and lose the tool forever, if he hasn't already.</p><p> </p><p>He has to surface twice more before he finds it, and twice more the relief that floods him is dangerous. Addicting. It always is, however he ends up inducing it. He finds he doesn't <em> mind </em>wasting time to feel it, and that's when he kicks his foot as far under the desk as it will go and resolves not to allow it again. </p><p> </p><p>This isn't about <em> him. </em>It never should be.</p><p> </p><p>He gets the drawer open, grinning, and shoves the tools into his pocket before reaching inside.</p><p> </p><p>The smile fades when he touches it. When he feels the leather brush against his nearly-numb skin, when his hand closes around it and pulls it out.</p><p> </p><p>Something most thought was fake.</p><p> </p><p>Lucky them.</p><p> </p><p>He holds tight to the little book, swipes his arm to get to the surface—</p><p> </p><p>And doesn't move. </p><p> </p><p>He tugs at his foot, and <em> it </em>doesn't move either. </p><p> </p><p>The word forms again on his lips, silent this time.</p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck. </em> </p><p> </p><p>He tilts backwards, kicking at the desk with his other foot, and hears himself choke.</p><p> </p><p>No. <em> No. </em> He's in control, of his body and the situation he's placed it in. He can wait. He <em> will. </em>It's just his shoe, it's stuck on something, he can just slip it off—</p><p> </p><p>Only he <em> can't. </em> He wedged his foot so far under it that he can't wiggle it at all, and the weight pressing down makes it impossible to just <em> remove </em>the shoe.</p><p> </p><p>His mouth opens unwillingly as he heaves, bubbles trailing out, up to where he needs to be, <em>right</em> now<em>, </em> and <em> isn't. </em></p><p> </p><p>He claps his hand over his mouth, squeezing his nose shut to stop the last of his air from escaping just yet, and then shoves the desk as hard as he can with the other, scrabbles and kicks at it. He manages to slide it half an inch, but his foot still doesn't come free, and as black dots start to dance in his eyes he becomes frantic, desperate, flailing, loses any sense of calm he vaguely knows he needs to get out of this because it <em> hurts, </em>and he's past the point of where he's ever willingly pushed himself before.</p><p> </p><p>He cannot die. He <em> will not die. </em> Not before he solves the case, not <em> until</em>, not <em> yet— </em></p><p> </p><p>Gil—Gil is going to find him like <em> this, dead— </em></p><p> </p><p>He slams both hands against the desk, screaming his pain and fear and knowing with horrible certainty that in a second he's not going to feel <em> either </em>anymore, and then suddenly it shifts, and the pressure on his foot is gone.</p><p> </p><p>He can't even hold his breath long enough to make it up. He takes in water as he flounders, thrashing and gurgling, and then finally, <em> finally </em>breaks the surface, hacking it out and desperately sucking air back in.</p><p> </p><p>In the middle of the pool with nothing to hold onto, Malcolm still nearly drowns. He dips under three times more as he struggles to hang onto consciousness, moving with weak thrusts of his feet and arms towards the side. Water is in his eyes, and all he can hear is his own choking, spitting out water each time it gets in his mouth and only receiving more as he moves, slowly, so slowly, trying to reach out and grab the edge before he's close enough. The panic overwhelming him makes him breathe even faster, makes him need more air, and every other breath is mixed with water as he reaches and <em> reaches </em> and still grasps nothing. </p><p> </p><p>He can't even cry out for help. No one's here. He's more likely to have a few bastard kids come <em>watch </em>than he is to get <em>help.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>'Please—please, Nicky—someone—anyone—oh, God, help me! Help!' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He sinks again, into a silence somehow more complete than he experienced in that prison for <em>days</em>, and he's not sure he has the strength to get back up again. He can't feel a thing anymore, and his eyes are sliding shut despite how much he's willing them to open again, and he <em> needs to breathe— </em></p><p> </p><p>And then his hand touches the wall of the pool. He runs it upwards, grabs onto the edge, and with the very last of his energy drags himself to the surface.</p><p> </p><p>Nothing has <em> ever </em>felt as good as the deep breath he takes, and something inside, something nowhere near as drowned as him and nowhere near as suppressed as it used to be, tells him he should have let go, tells him that that relief should never have been granted to him.</p><p> </p><p>But it was. He's alive, however unfortunate. However badly it will end for the ones he loves. </p><p> </p><p>Selfish, but then he's never been anything else.</p><p> </p><p>He clings to the edge for a long while, face pressed into his arm, coughing out what he inhaled and replacing the oxygen he's been denied. Eventually, the dizziness starts to abate, his head starts to clear, and he can pull his body along the wall of the pool with his hand until he reaches the ladder.</p><p> </p><p>It's almost too much to climb it. He does, somehow, and then collapses onto the ground. He vomits up more water, coughs until he's fairly sure he'll never speak again, and then, after another long time of just breathing, finally manages to recover.</p><p> </p><p>And as feeling returns to his limbs, he realizes that he's been clutching onto that damned book the entire time.</p><p> </p><p>He chokes out a laugh. Tears blur his eyes, but it's easy to pretend it's just more water.</p><p> </p><p>That's right. He had to survive, because he's needed. Because there's no other choice. Because he <em> has </em> to.</p><p> </p><p>It takes too much time to get back to his feet, to stagger out of the pool room, soaked and shivering and dripping.</p><p> </p><p>Alive to solve the case, which is all that matters.</p><p> </p><p>He turns a corner, and a kid on his phone startles, nearly drops it in fright as he looks up at Malcolm like he's some kind of—</p><p> </p><p>Like he's a monster. Like he's nothing more than cracked, shattering, <em>breaking</em> glass to see straight through, to the sins he so desperately tries to hide away.</p><p> </p><p>It makes him uncomfortable, and it makes him <em>furious</em>. </p><p> </p><p>"What the hell?" the kid mutters, and Malcolm smiles at him. He's sure it doesn't look much like one at all by the way the kid recoils.</p><p> </p><p>"Can I use that?" Malcolm asks, and then takes the phone without waiting for an answer. "Thanks." He dials Gil's number, and swipes wet hair from his eyes. The kid just <em> stares </em> at him—he hears whistling from down the hall—and he scowls and turns around, batting at his ear to try and silence the noise.</p><p> </p><p>Gil answers at last. "Kid? Where <em> are </em> you, I've been—"</p><p> </p><p>"Hey! Hi, Gil." He pulls the phone away, coughing into his elbow, and then opens the book back to the page he can read much clearer now that he's more with himself, no longer lying on the floor in a puddle. "I've got some names for you. Suspects. Mmkay?"</p><p> </p><p>"What? How? Never mind, just…okay. I trust you'll <em>explain</em>. Go on, I've got a pen."</p><p> </p><p>He does, reading straight from the book, three names. Three kids. </p><p> </p><p>One is more than enough to do something like this. One is more than enough.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>'Come back, please—I'm not him! I'm not him! Don't leave me—please—come back!'</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He slumps against the wall as his legs weaken, but he doesn't fall. He won't. Can't. </p><p> </p><p>"Bright? You okay? You sound out of breath."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm <em> great," </em> Malcolm replies, wheezing the words out even more than he was before and <em>surely</em> not convincing Gil at all. "Just fine. Always fine. Got it all under control. You know me!" </p><p> </p><p>And then he hangs up, and carelessly tosses the kid his phone back as he starts off down the hall.</p><p> </p><p>They don't know him. They <em> don't. </em> That's the problem. Gil thought he did, thinks he <em> does. </em>But he doesn't. He doesn't know what Malcolm's done, what he's capable of.</p><p> </p><p>And Malcolm knows the second the truth comes out, because someway, inevitably, he fesrs it will, Gil won't love him anymore. He won't even <em> look </em>at him anymore. He wouldn't even think it so bad of an idea for Malcolm to have never left the pool.</p><p> </p><p>He should have never left that <em> closet</em>. Gil, Dani, JT, his family—they'd all agree if they knew. </p><p> </p><p>But they don't. </p><p> </p><p>And it's better if it stays that way. </p>
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